


Familiar Stranger

by Areiton



Series: Strange/Familiar [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, I have no idea what to tag, M/M, Oblivious Dylan, Pining, Tyler-centric, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Dylan swung into his world, with big amber eyes and soft pouting lips and an innocence he wanted to dirty right up, and hechangedthings.





	Familiar Stranger

Sometimes when he looks at Dylan, he doesn’t really understand what he’s seeing.

It’s hard to believe the man he knows now is the same kid he met what feels like a lifetime ago, the boy that was awkward and painfully young, bright and eager and innocent in a way he hadn’t been in so long he can’t remember what that innocence feels like, now.

He’d been working as long as he could remember. And he got rejection, got the craft, got the long ass hours and the separation of character and self. He got the early calls and the endless swirl of press and the way all of it added up to having the shiny innocence rubbed away.

And yeah, he was an easy going guy, a big smile and a ready laugh. He liked his work, even if half the time he spent half dressed and the other half he spent disillusioned.

But then there was Dylan.

And sometimes, he looked at the kid and all he saw was the  _ kid _ , young and eager and alive with excitement during the first season of  _ Teen Wolf. _

He’d been shocked by how  _ good _ the kid was. How easy he shed the young still eager to learn Dylan to  _ become  _ Stiles.

The first time he sees it, he’s so startled he misses his cue, fumbles his lines and eventually just stops and stares.

The second time, Dylan flashes him a grin that could pass as Stiles, but isn’t and it settles something he didn’t realize was off, seeing that flash of familiar in a stranger’s face.

And that was startling too--the way Dylan  _ knew _ he needed that reassurance, the way he  _ did  _ need that reassurance, when he’d never needed it before Dylan, didn’t need it with anyone else on set.

Dylan swung into his world, with big amber eyes and soft pouting lips and an innocence he wanted to dirty right up, and he  _ changed _ things.

Realizing that sure as fuck changed the way he looked at his young costar. It was something he didn’t really understand, not until it was happening, had happened, was done and he was so fucking gone on the kid he couldn’t pull back.

He didn’t do anything.

Dylan  _ was  _ all kinds of innocent and too young for a guy like him to be wandering in and fucking things up. Besides, friendship--friendship was good. He could handle loving Dylan quietly from a distance if he didn’t actually lose the man he knew Dylan was growing into, the friend he’d become, the person who--through late nights playing video games and nursing hangovers, between fighting over pizza and bitching over workout regimes and sharing a bathroom and set and  _ life _ with--had become indispensable, so much a part of him he couldn’t imagine a life where Dylan wasn’t on the other end of a phone when he was too tired to sleep, wasn’t the first person he text after a game, wasn’t the first face he looked for in a crowded room, when Dylan’s eyes found his, amber brightening with the quick crooked smile that was real, and his, and familiar--there and gone so quickly no one noticed. No one but him.

And it worked.

For years, it worked.

Dylan grew up, grew into the promise he had seen on set that first season, and every day since, and he got to watch, got to see this kid blossom into everything he always expected, and then more.

Time helped. Distance helped. It got to a point where he didn’t always ache with want and the knowledge he couldn’t  _ have _ . Got to the point where he could smile and listen to his friend and didn’t feel ill-advised confessions pressing against his teeth, pushed up against the wide smile that felt fake. Where inviting Dylan to a game, to his house, on fucking vacation together--it was something friends do, even friends who worked further and further apart as time and Dylan--all the big wonderful thing he always expected for Dylan--worked to pull them apart.

But.

There were also moments when his resolve faltered. Of course there was. Every time Posey--asshole--sent him a video of Dylan laughing with other people.

When they went out and Dylan licked his lips and grinned, his eyes wide and dark against the pale of his face, and that grin was the one he loved most, the one that was real and honest, a flash of familiar in a stranger’s face.

After the accident, when Dylan was hiding from the world, and they text each other, these long rambling stream of consciousness things, filling each other up with the minutia of a day that didn’t include the other, but this way--this connected--it felt like it did.

And there was the night Dylan showed up, a little buzzed and antsy, almost vibrating with tension as he moved through the house restlessly, and never really addressed why he was there or what was bothering him, but the tension drained, this slow thing that he helped along with comfort food and beer and the quiet comfort of  _ presence _ without the need to fill it with words, and before bed, Dylan had given him a smile, small, the tiny flare of familiar in a face made strange by stress. And, swamped with the sudden need to push Dylan’s sleepy body into the door frame and kiss him senseless, he had retreated, muttering promises about surfing in the morning, voice slurred by sleep and want and whiskey--too much whiskey, dangerous when he was with Dylan, but it never seemed to stop him, and he’s only glad he never fucked things up--even when he toes that line, he’s never fucked things up.

He wakes up with Dylan wrapped around him and can’t remember how the fuck that happened, only knows that with his face this close and this open, this soft and vulnerable and goddamn gorgeous--

He admits it then.

He’s in love with the kid.

And that isn’t even the hard part. He’s been in love with Dylan so long he can’t remember what it’s like, to not love him.

It’s that--he wants this.

Wants to wake up next to him, wants to laugh with him, tease the tension from his face and his shoulders, see that flash of  _ Dylan _ peering through the masks he wears for characters and public and even friends--but never for him.

Dylan has never worn masks for him.

For the first time, he wonders how much that would hurt.

More than this--than waking up with his best friend in his arms, curled up like he belongs, breathing warm and heavy into his shoulder, his face soft and impossibly beautiful.

He wants to keep this, so badly he actually reaches for Dylan, and that--

That shakes him out of his  _ want,  _ shakes him right into  _ what the hell _ and he rolls out of bed, soundless and doesn’t look back as Dylan makes a wordless noise of protest.

Then Dylan leaves, goes to film American Assassin and when they see each other next it’s--different. Not as easy. The usual teasing is tempered with too long looks, and a kind of tension in him that he knows Dylan notices but doesn’t know how to stop.

He hates it.

He doesn’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t know how to stop  _ feeling _ , or how to keep Dylan when what they want is so fucking different.

Dylan watches him, at parties and conventions, when Holland bullies them into going out. He can feel the questions coming off the kid, but he doesn’t ask.

And he isn’t, not really--not a kid.

Somewhere along the way, between falling in love with him and admiring the hell out of his raw talent, between friendship and pining--Dylan grew up.

And he has no fucking clue what to do with that.

He has no fucking clue how to look away. Holland is pressed close, and he can feel her watching him, but Dylan is here, and close, and his hips are rolling in that way they do, when he’s letting go, having fun. When he has no one to impress and he lets his guard down a little, and that tiny smile peeks out. Dylan is laughing, and dancing and he  _ can’t  _ do this.

Because he loves Dylan, loves him so much it hurts, but god he can’t lose this kid.

He doesn’t know how to stop feeling, how to stop watching, or wanting.

And he has no fucking clue how to  _ be _ without Dylan to ground him.

He turns without really planning to, because if he stays--

If he stays, he will find Dylan on that dance floor, will slip up behind him and pull that body he’s watched for so long close, will feel the dirty hitch of his hips.

And he’ll break, can feel himself breaking already.

Holland makes a noise, all irritated frustration, but she doesn’t stop him and it’s not hard to slip out, to push through the crowd into the heat of LA night. He pauses there, not sure, what to do, lost in a way he has never found himself lost before.

For a moment, he allows himself to hesitate, leans against the wall and tips his head back, eyes wide and sightless.

Sometimes, loving a man he can never have is easy, effortless because he does love Dylan, but he needs Dylan’s friendship so much more.

And then there are nights like tonight, where it feels like a torture, one that will never end, one of his own choosing, that hurts even more for that fact.

He stares at the sky, unblinking.

If he closes his eyes, he’ll see Dylan, dancing, and he can’t. He  _ can’t  _ see that, or he’ll go back and find him, push him into wall and lick into that wet mouth, and he’ll ruin  _ everything. _

He stares into the sky without stars, and wishes--

For a heartbeat, he allows himself to wish for  _ everything _ . For all that he has wanted and can never have, for the lazy morning sex and the rough tired fucks, and his friend, taking the place that’s already his.

For a moment, right now, waiting for a cab, he lets himself wish for things he will never have.

That at least, is safe.

Later. Tomorrow. He’ll tuck it away, hide the wishes and the ache and the want behind a big smile and friendly banter.

He’ll text Dylan, tell him he wasn’t feeling well, invite him over. They’ll settle back into the thing they’ve always been, friends with a shocking lack of boundaries. He’ll smile and lock it up and listen to Dylan talk about filming with Keaton and what big new things are on the horizon and he’ll be so fucking filled with pride, it might even drown out the ache for a little while, bury the urge to pull Dylan close, roll Dylan under his body and kiss him until the only sound he made was his name, and the masks all shatter, until there is nothing left but Dylan and him, and all of  _ this _ is laid bare.

But that is tomorrow, and right now, he’s alone in a city of dreams, and he lets himself, a tiny sad smile tick up his lips.

His cab comes too soon and he huffs a little sigh, pushes off the wall, and moves toward it, slipping in even as he texts Holland that he’s leaving, glaring at the string of emoticons she sends back because why use words when you can use frowning circles instead and he doesn’t see the tiny frown, the amber gaze in a pale face that is familiar and open, unguarded, the plea, whispered too soft for him to hear as he swings the door shut, gaze still on his phone.

He doesn’t hear Dylan whisper,

_ “Ty, wait. Tyler.” _

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> First shot at this pairing, ect ect. Yes, my Tyler is a little darker (ok, seriously he's just broody, not so much DARK) than normal, but....yeah, the story did what the story did. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLUFFY!
> 
> Dylan's POV coming soon!


End file.
